Upside Down
by thelovelydreamer
Summary: Peeta never meant to get himself sentenced to death. He was strangely content with his poverty-stricken life in the Seam, really. But then, in order to save his sister, he was thrown into the chaos of the Hunger Games. And his life was turned upside down. *What if Peeta had been the one to volunteer? What if he was the poor hunter from the Seam, and Katniss the baker's daughter?
1. Comfort I Cannot Give

**So. Here we go. It's kind of a crazy Alternate Universe. In it, several of the characters are messed up. Here, I'll tell you who I have switched (so far)  
Peeta - Katniss  
Madge - Gale  
That's all for now.**

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**I don't own the Hunger Games. Although I do own a rather beautiful mockingjay pin.**

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When I roll over, the other side of the bed is cold. I look across the room to find my little sister, Prim, curled up with my mother in the other bed. Of course. She is scared. It is her first time, and she had needed the comfort of my mother's arms to keep the nightmares at bay.

Comfort I could not give her.

I lie in bed for a while, listening to the sounds of their breath. Then I realize that Prim's breathing is ragged, uneven. She is awake, too nervous to sleep, even tucked up against our mother. I walk across the room and stroke her hair.

"Hey," I whisper. "It's okay. It's your first time. Your name's only in there once."

"Sing to me, Peeta," she says. "Sing me something happy."

I sing to my little sister, a sweet little song about a meadow. It was the safest place I could take her, as far away from District 12 as possible. Hunger and cold would never be a problem there. Neither would the possibility of being chosen randomly for televised slaughter.

I kiss her little head as she falls asleep. "I have to go," I said. "I'll be back soon."

I slip on my father's old boots and a worn shirt and pants, grab my bag, and go. I run through the little worn-down alleys of the Seam until I reach the fence, ducking under with a _clang_, I meet my friend Madge on the other side.

"Hey, Pete," she calls out and notices the look on my face. "What's wrong?"

"Hit myself on the fence again," I say, grabbing my scratched-up side.

"You really need to get better at sliding through that hole. You're small enough. And besides, didn't you get yourself in the exact same spot last week?"

"And the week before," I nod. We walk farther into the woods until we reach our clearing on the hill, and Madge stops short.

She's staring at my shirt, on which a red flower of blood is blossoming. "You're bleeding. Come on, take off your shirt, you know the drill."

I plop down on the grass and do as she asks, watching her nimble hands tear a strip off of the piece of linen she keeps in her bag for this reason. It cost us a few squirrels and some berries, but it was worth it. My entire back is scarred with evidence of our meetings in the woods; raised white stripes criss-cross up and down my arms and legs as well, but it's mostly in my back.

After my wound is taken care of, we hunt. I'm a bit too loud to hunt most animals, but I'm alright with traps and good with plants. Madge can take out almost anything with a bow. Between the two of us, we make a pretty good team. Besides, we need to hunt to survive. There's no food in our district and we need to feed our families. Madge has three siblings back home, just as I have Prim and my mother.

We walk back to our clearing, and I pull a raspberry out of our bag. It's our tradition, every year. I toss it in the air, laughing, and Madge grabs it, throwing it as far as she can off of the hill. "Happy Hunger Games," she says.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I reply. We giggle, but our moods are bleak. My name is in the reaping bowl twenty-six times. Madge's is in it thirty-nine. Every slip of paper is one chance closer to almost certain death.

Of course, there's also the chance that it could lead to fame, glory, riches, and severe emotional trauma, but that's too small of a possibility to even honestly consider. Supposedly it's an honor to be reaped in some districts. Not here. There is no honor in being killed by another child.

After selling our goods at the local black market, we head home. I bring a small bag of berries and nuts with me alongside our regular share of the goods in order to bake a loaf of bread after the Reaping. Kind of a "congratulations, you haven't been picked for televised death!" sort of thing.

I comb my hair and change into the one nice set of clothes I have before, taking Prim's hand, we head to the Justice Hall.

Effie Trinkett is onstage, looking ridiculous as ever in a pink wig, and Prim clutches my hand harder. Unfortunately, we are separated into age groups and I lose her to a sea of twelve-year-olds. I see Madge across our group of sixteen-year-olds. She nods quietly.

Onstage, after the usual formalities and propaganda, Effie Trinkett was adjusting her wig and reaching into the bowl labeled of girls' names. "Ladies first," she says.

Her hand reaches in.

My heart pounds for my sister.

They're not going to pick her.

They can't.

"Primrose Mellark."

My head is spinning. My little sister. I love her unconditionally. I didn't have much trouble making friends, not really. I had been told that I was a good communicator. But Prim meant more to me than anyone else. The way she clutched my hand when she was scared; the way her smile was infectious, her laugh could spread through the Seam. I can't let her die. Before I know what else to do, I scream.

"I volunteer. I volunteer as a tribute."

There is a collective gasp. I hear cries of "Peeta! You can't!" Volunteering as a tribute is allowed, but uncommon. Especially in districts like ours. It was signing yourself up for certain death. In all of the previous seventy-three Hunger Games, our district has had two victors, and no volunteers.

Prim is crying as the peacekeepers march me up to the stage. I will not cry. I will be brave for my little sister.

"Your name, sir?" Effie asks.

"Peeta Mellark," I declare as confidently as I can, but my voice still wavers.

"I take it you are Primrose's brother?" I just nod, and she addresses the crowd once again, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a volunteer. May I have a big round of applause?"

District 12 does not applaud. They raise three fingers of their left hand in the air. The most majestic salute they can give.

Shortly thereafter, Effie reaches into the girls' bowl again. She will not need the bowl of boys today. They will all be safe for another year, at least from this particular torture.

I do not recognize the name she calls, but I know the face.

"Katniss Everdeen."

She is the baker's daughter, a small girl with the dark coloring of the Seam, despite living in the better part of the district.

She saved my life once, and now, to save it again, I will have to kill her.

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**Okay. There we have it. Chapter one. **

**Let me know how it was?  
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**In other words, review or I'll send the mutts after you.  
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**No, but seriously :)  
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	2. A Painting of Lost Faces

**Hey guys, sorry I took so long to update. I've been far busier than I thought I would be! Anyways, this chapter's a little bit longer, so that should help. Enjoy!**

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**If I owned the Hunger Games, Peeta would have married me, not Katniss**

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My head is spinning.

_No_, I think, _no, no, no. I can't do this._

But I have to. I have to save my little sister. I would never, ever, subject her to this fate. The fate I have brought upon myself.

Katniss is just standing there staring at me, her gray eyes wide and expressive; the rest of her face stony and cold. I know she must be reading everything I am feeling on my face. I've never been very good at hiding emotions. I study her face as well, trying to read her feelings. It's much harder than reading my own, so I allow myself to simply observe her appearance. She's pretty, but a bit childish looking. She's slender, but not the near-see-through of the children in the Seam. Her dress is a bit faded, but a soft green that almost fits her. Prim is left with our mother's hand-me-downs from when she lived in the nicer part of town. They never fit her quite right.

Suddenly a very drunk man sprints onstage, as if he realizes that he was meant to be there a while ago. And he promptly falls off. I catch him before he can land face-first in the audience, but I'm a bit small, and he's rather heavy, and we both end up in a tangled heap on the stage. I stand up and get a good look at the crumpled man next to me. I recognize him, I realize. He's Haymitch Abernathy. Our mentor.

Oh, great. I get sentenced to certain death _and_ get a drunken sod for a mentor. What a perfect day.

Effie stands there, disgusted, until two peacekeepers help Haymitch to his feet. Then, she simply says, "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the District 12 tributes!"

The peacekeepers release their grip on Haymitch, who staggers quietly offstage, and we are led inside to the Justice Building. It's surprisingly pretty, despite the fact that it appears to be slowly crumbling. I've been inside it once before. After my father died in a mining accident and we were honored, as one of the families of those in the explosion. I had done everything I could to make my mother smile again after. It took time and effort, and even now, years later, there are still days when she reverts to shell-mode. But I can't imagine what would have happened to her without me. What will happen to her once I am gone? I can't let myself think about it, and I soon don't have to, for they are pushing us into an elevator. I have ridden an elevator once before- the same time I was in the Justice Building once before. It is a strange sensation, although not necessarily an unpleasant one. I am pondering the mechanics of the elevator as I hear a strange little whimper from the other corner.

It is Katniss, gripping the rusted railing as though her life depended on it, wincing at every little creak. The poor girl is terrified, and I walk the two steps over to her to comfort her.

"It's okay," I say, "it's just and elevator. It's perfectly safe."

She blinks, and as if to spite me, the elevator stops mid-floor with a particularly loud _clang_.

Katniss stares me defiantly in the face and spits out, "Perfectly safe?"

I can tell she isn't the first person I would like to be stuck in an elevator. But, seeing as we are stuck together anyway, I take a deep breath and respond, "It should be up and running again soon." I try to sound like I know what I'm talking about. I really don't, though.

We wait there for a long time. I'm pacing the few steps across the elevator allows, and Katniss is curled up in the corner. I hear the ticking of her watch, and count the minutes.

_1_

_2_

_3_

_4_

_5_

I reach _10_ by the time the elevator lets out a loud crash and a whir and begins to ascend again. Somehow I have found myself seated next to Katniss, my hand brushing hers. I pull away quickly, before she notices.

The peacekeepers are waiting to escort us off to the rooms where we will say our final goodbyes to our parents. They must have taken a different elevator, one that didn't break down. Our arms are grabbed roughly, and we're shoved into separate rooms, just across the hall from one another. I think I hear Katniss banging on her locked door, but that may have just been the blood rushing through my head.

I slump against a wall and take a good look at the room. It has bookshelves up to the ceiling, but they're mostly empty, or full of books that are falling apart. There is a threadbare carpet that was clearly pretty once, and the two chairs are worn to the point of cracking. I perch awkwardly on one of them, afraid it's going to break out from under me, when the door is pushed open and my mother enters with Prim.

I run up and hug them as tightly as possible—more so, because I will probably never see them again. My shoulder feels wet, and I see Prim crying. My mother is foggy-eyed; she has checked back into her own private reality, one in which Dad and I are both still alive and present.

"Momma," I clutch her arm. "Momma, it's going to be okay. You're going to be fine. Madge's family can help you when you need it. But you can't leave Prim alone, alright? I love you so much, Momma. Please help her, for me." A tear snakes down my mother's face as she plants a kiss on my head.

"I love you, too, Peeta. You're a strong, courageous, wonderful boy," she says.

Prim grabs me next, and I kneel to look her in the eyes. They are coated in a thick veil of tears; tears that I know are matched in my own eyes. I am crying almost as hard as my little sister. She clings to me, sobbing silently. Finally, she catches her breath and chokes out, "Peeta, don't go. Don't go, Peeta!"

"Prim, I have no choice. It's the only thing I can do."

She shakes her head, "I can go instead. You're more needed by the district. Everyone likes you."

"And everyone loves you, Prim. You are not going to die for me. I won't allow it."

"I won't either, Peeta," she sees the steely determination on my face and adds quietly, "just try to win."

"I promise."

The Peacekeeper comes in to let my family know that their time to say goodbye is up. It is the last time that I will see them, and I memorize their faces one last time, the silhouettes of their bodies in the doorframe. I imagine them painted in vivid colors—blues and violets, a warm golden hue for their hair. Suddenly, the scene is no longer pure sadness, but there is a spark of hope as well.

Madge enters next. Our goodbye is much quieter. We just sit and hug for the next three minutes, and she slips me the roll of linen. "I think you'll need this," she says, and promises to take care of Prim. And then she's gone. Her face has been added to the portrait of my family. It is a portrait of all of those whom I have lost.

I sit quietly, waiting to be escorted to the train to the Capitol, but I have another visitor. It's Gale, the mayor's son. He's a friend of mine, and seems to understand the artistic way in which my mind works. Most people don't. They think I should remain focused on survival, but Gale and I both see things differently.

"Good luck," he says, and hands me the watch he had been wearing. It is a beautiful thing, with a sturdy strap and considerably shiny back. The interesting part of it was the fact that the watch has no numbers. Its face is dominated by a large golden mockingjay. "Wear this, and remember your district."

I just stare at him, awestruck, before he slips away. His face has been added do my portrait.

I have one final visitor. Mr. Everdeen, the baker, steps into the room.

"I wanted to wish you good luck, and say goodbye. It felt like the right thing to do," he says.

"Thank you," I reply.

"You're a good kid, Peeta. What you did out there was brave. Braver than anything I could ever do." He's a kind, gentle man with smile lines around his eyes. Right now his face is warm, but serious. More serious than I could have imagined. He holds out a bag of cookies. "These are for you. I want you to know that you have the support of the district."

I accept the bag. Cookies. Watches. Linen. I am getting all sorts of gifts today. Mr. Everdeen is escorted out, and I am left with one more face in my picture.

The peacekeepers come in after me, and I am led alongside Katniss in a car to the train station. It is the second time I have been in a car. The first was the same day as the elevator, the day of my father's memorial.

I stare out the window as the district watches us, rushes to say goodbye. Every single one of their faces is added to my picture.

By the time we reach the train, a shiny black monolith above the bleak skyline, the painting is already overcrowded. And we haven't even made it to the Capitol yet.

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**Yep. A longish one. It was going to be longer, but I'm tire (sorry guys!) and this seemed like a decent ending spot.**

**Tell me what you guys think (personally, I enjoyed sticking them in an elevator)  
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**so, Review! Review! Review!  
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	3. Mammoths and Mahogany

**Author's Note: I am sosososo sorry I took so long to upload! When it comes to writing, I can be incredibly lazy. I toyed with the idea of making this chapter go through to the Tribute Parade, but, as always, I was a little bit to tired. I promise that and update will come soon! On another note, please enjoy!**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. If I did, we would have seen a lot more of Finnick Odair. Literally.**

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I've never been on a train before, and the only ones I've ever actually seen are freight trains—clunky gray things not meant to carry people. The Capitol train sent for us is mammoth and sleek and utterly alien.

Effie Trinkett is bursting with excitement as she leads us inside, where chandeliers roam freely above plush sofas and velvet walls. The food on the tables could probably feed a family in the Seam for a year. I am awestruck, hungrily drinking in every detail. It's beautiful. Katniss, however, bites her lip and walks ahead sullenly.

I find my room, a car beyond the dining car and the living car. It has a bed with sheets softer than anything I have ever felt, a small set of drawers filled with bizarre clothing, and a bathroom with a shower with dozens of knobs. I can control the scent, the warmth, the pressure, the color of the shower. I fiddle around for a while, settling on something warm that smells like freshly-baked bread. A little odd, but it almost smells like home. In the drawers I find a silky blue top and black pants. Pulling them on, I fall asleep in the cloud of a bed.

My dreams are odd. I see faces floating around and around. Prim screaming, the president laughing, Katniss dead in a corner. I see blood and knives and bread. Oddly enough, I see a lot of bread. Looking closer, though, I see that the bread is colored with the blood of the dead. I try to wake up, pull myself out of this nightmare, but I cannot seem able to. I am just succumbing myself to another round of terror when the Madge in my dream lets out and odd bell-like noise. I bolt upright in my bed, to find a bell sounding through the train. It must be time for dinner.

I brush my hair and put on a pair of soft black shoes. I must be having more fun with the Capitol clothing than I should be, even if I am avoiding the most absurd things. I am still thinking about this when I arrive in the dining car, a room paneled in Mahogany and carpeted in green plush.

Effie, Haymitch, and Katniss are already gathered along the long black table. Effie is picking delicately at what appears to be a pink bird of some sort, Haymitch is scarfing down everything within sight and never letting the liquor bottle out of his hand, and Katniss is just sitting and looking unhappy. I find a seat next to her and survey my options. There is the pink bird that Effie was eating, an assortment of rainbow-colored vegetables and fruits, golden breads, and a much more pleasant looking stew. I settle for the stew, and also find a warm brown substance in my mug. I sip it—it's sweet and pleasant. Effie must notice the look of surprise on my face, because she says, "That's hot chocolate."

I take another sip appreciatively, and find Katniss staring at me. "Try some," I say. "It's good. Really, it is."

She hesitates, but slowly takes a sip. Her face seems to warm up with the hot chocolate, and she smiles, just a tiny bit, for the first time since this all started. "Thanks," she whispers. I nod and take a bite of the stew.

"So," Haymitch says, "I hear one of you's handy with a bow?"

Katniss looks up, "I'm all right, I guess. I haven't really had much practice with one."

"And you, boy?"

"Oh, no. I can set traps, and I suppose I know my knives, but a bow isn't really my thing."

Effie nods, knowingly. I'm not sure how she could know any of these things, but she sure acts like it. Haymitch takes another sip of whiskey.

"Hey, girl, if you're only okay with a bow and arrows, what can you do?" he asks. "Wanna show me?" He is obviously incredibly drunk, and the near-empty bottle next to him only proves that even more.

I can see Katniss tensing up, gripping her knife.

"C'mon. Nuffin to be 'fraid of. Ole Haymitch is right here."

Katniss grabs her knife and hurls it into the wall beside Haymitch's head.

Effie shrieks. "That is mahogany!"

Haymitch looks sobered up suddenly, and pulls the knife out of the wall. "Listen, kid. You can throw, you just proved that. But it takes more than anger management issues to win the Games. You gotta make people like you. And one more piece of advice. Stay alive." With that, he throws the knife onto the table, grabs his whiskey bottle, and totters off to his car.

Effie looks appalled, and leaves as well. That just leaves me and Katniss, and a splintering wooden wall. And then Katniss leaves too, and I am left all alone.

I am walking back to my car when I hear a noise from beside me. Katniss is sitting on the couch in the amusement room, watching videos of old games. Her face is stony, but I can see the sadness flickering in her eyes. I silently join her, and she grabs for my hand. In a few weeks, I will be forced to kill her, or at least watch her die, if I want to come out alive. We go through disc after disc, watch murder after murder, and pretty soon tears are streaming down my face. But at least we know what we have to do to win.

The rest of the train ride is uneventful. I sleep fitfully, Katniss barely eats, Haymitch remains disturbingly drunk, and Effie looks disapproving. We arrive at the Capitol after breakfast the next day. I stare out the train's window at the skyline in awe. Rising up from the hills are glistening towers, taller than anything I have ever seen. The water surrounding the city gleams and the bridges are shining. It is so much more amazing than anything I have ever seen before.

The train station is a mammoth glass building. Pulling up to it, it is impossible to see where it ends. It fades into the sky, and into the horizon in all directions. Inside, peculiar people are milling about, preening like colorful birds. They look excited to see our tribute train pull up, and I wave. Many wave back. I have never seen so many colors in people. In District Twelve, the colors are muted and everyone's coloring is either brown or blond. Here many people have pink hair or green skin or actual feathers growing out of their faces. The clothing is so lavish it pains me to think of who it could clothe in the Seam. There are people here who probably have a different ensemble for every day of the year, while there are families back home who are lucky to have a different outfit for each season. The world is a funny place like that; never dividing things evenly, or giving more to those most deserving.

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**So? What did you think? Good? Bad? Is Katniss seriously getting on your nerves, because I know she's getting on mine. I need to make that girl talk. Soon. **

**Remember, review review review!****  
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